


Entangling Alliances

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Tarnsaurus Week 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: A series of fics for Tarnsaurus Week 2019!  That's the plan, at least - we'll see how far we get. :)
Relationships: Deathsaurus/Tarn
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	1. Mask/Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed warnings on individual chapters. Chapter 1 contains a battle scene with moderate violence, and implied future torture (nothing depicted).
> 
> Technically, the prompt for the first chapter is Mask OR Wings, but I found a way to combine them. :)

The skirmish with the Galactic Council would have been an unremarkable blip in their journey – the great mission of Emperor Tarn and his grand alliance, to wipe the traitor Megatron from the face of the universe – had it not been for something that happened mere seconds before the battle ended.

Tarn had just noted with satisfaction that a handful of Deathsaurus’s troops were pursuing the last of the Council soldiers, and he was in the act of raising his communicator to order the WarWorld crew to regroup and return to the ship when he picked up – far too close – the familiar pop-hiss of a missile leaving its launcher.

Shoving the officer next to him out of the way, Tarn brought his arm up to deflect the shot. The blast fizzled against his armour, singeing the paint, but no more. However, Tarn’s satisfaction was short lived. The outer shell of the missile burst… and a tiny pellet inside continued its path, streaking past his upraised aim to splatter against his mask.

The metal of the mask turned molten and began to boil.

Tarn roared, flinging up his hands to shield his face as, to his horror, the whole left side of his mask dripped away like a candle. Where the melting metal touched his faceplate, it burned; but that was the least of his worries.

“Sir!” The WarWorld officer Tarn had pushed was bent over him, shouting. “Medic! Medic here! Sir, are you all right?”

“Just go and _fetch_ the medic, damn you!” Tarn growled, his head now buried in his arms.

“It’s all right, sir, she’s on her way.” The officer crouched beside him, and solicitous, _infuriating_ hands were on his shoulders. “Sir, here, let me help you up –”

“I _told_ you to –”

Before Tarn could finish the sentence, the hands vanished. He could hear murmured voices above him, the officer’s and another, deep and familiar.

Then there was a quiet _shickt,_ as of a blade being drawn softly. Tarn risked a glance up through his fingers.

Above him, surrounding him, was a veritable force field made of a pair of massive silver wings. They hid most of the battlefield from him (and, he realised gratefully, vice versa), and he couldn’t see the officer he’d been speaking with at all. Only flared wings and crimson biolights, and, between them, the graceful, powerful curve of the WarWorld commander’s back.

“I’ve got you,” Deathsaurus murmured without looking back at Tarn. “Nickel’s coming; I asked her to bring an emergency covering.”

Tarn rose stiffly to his feet. Behind the veil of Deathsaurus’s wings, he let his hands drop to his sides. “I –” _You must think me ridiculous,_ he reflected bitterly, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say something cutting about the discipline of Deathsaurus’s forces for letting him get injured in the first place, just to keep his field marshal in line. But… Deathsaurus _wasn’t_ acting like he thought Tarn was ridiculous. The insult died on Tarn’s lips.

After a moment, Deathsaurus added, “You pushed Jallguar out of harm’s way, and took the blow yourself. I know he’s very grateful. As am I.”

“Instinct,” said Tarn dismissively, but Deathsaurus only hummed in approval.

“My crew have taken a couple of prisoners. Would you like to do the honours when we return?”

Tarn could feel the smile start to spread across his face. “Indeed.”

“Great big lug, protecting your body parts from enemy fire with your other body parts, how’d you _think_ that was going to work out for you...” Tarn could hear Nickel’s muttered litany approaching long before she reached him, and was smiling even more broadly by the time she announced her arrival by smacking his shin. “Lean down. You’re going to be the death of me.”

Deathsaurus waited until Tarn was safely hidden behind the spare mask; in fact, he kept his wings spread and his face averted until Tarn rested a hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “My thanks.” Then the commander turned and saluted, before striding off across the battlefield, his troops flocking to him as he went.

Tarn was doubly grateful for the replacement mask. It hid a blush that was most unbecoming of a Decepticon leader as he watched Deathsaurus go.


	2. History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarn’s just realising that this new alliance may have him in over his head. Luckily, he’s never met a problem he can’t solve through charm, ambiance, and the right playlist.
> 
> Did I say “solve”? I meant “complicate”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, these vignettes aren't necessarily going to be in order; this one actually takes place before "Mask/Wings", and is set within the first couple days of the DJD's alliance with Deathsaurus's crew.
> 
> Warnings: A few nonexplicit references to violence, no other warnings.
> 
> I'm greatly indebted to Enfilade's concept of Deathsaurus as someone who's established his own elaborate network of alliances on the Galactic Rim (and, just generally, to her amazing Deathsaurus and Tarnsaurus fics - go check them out!).

As Tarn left the WarWorld’s briefing room, he glanced around at his DJD, and was gratified that they at least looked as shell-shocked as he felt.

“Were we -” Tesarus began, but Tarn silenced him with a look. Instead, as one, the dreaded Decepticon Justice Division sidled down the corridor, trying for casual until they were within sprinting distance of the small ready room that Deathsaurus had generously ordered repurposed for their team’s needs.

And then sprint they did.

Helex, Tarn and Tesarus scooped up Kaon, Nickel and Vos, respectively, and they all hustled inside, with Tarn punching the encryption on the lock behind them. Once they were sure it was just the six of them, Tarn gave Tesarus a nod, and the latter burst out, “Were we _supposed_ to know all that?”

Tarn snarled his engine in response, and began pacing. Well, his version of pacing. Step, step, TSCHE-CHU-CHU-CHU-TSCHE. Roll, roll, TSCHE-CHU-CHU-CHU-TSCHE.

“In fairness, some of it _was_ in the briefing packs they gave us,” Kaon offered, backing up to give Tarn more room to transform.

“ _All_ of it was in the briefing packs,” Tarn growled. “We’re the ones who failed to connect the dots.”

The DJD digested this in silence.

It was difficult to deny. The briefing packs Deathsaurus had provided for them, which covered every aspect of WarWorld operations with a disarming level of frankness, contained a comprehensive section on the politics of the Galactic Rim. Every one of a startling number of alien civilisations was catalogued, with useful pointers on their level of technology and likely resources – and, down at the bottom, a few modest notes on the current status of diplomatic relations with each one.

It had looked so unassuming on a data pad screen. Actually spending two hours in a meeting with Deathsaurus and his senior officers, however, and watching the WarWorld commander shifting effortlessly between signing interstellar trade agreements, planning military manoeuvres, arranging envoys to as-yet unexplored worlds, and negotiating treaties – _treaties_! - was a cold reboot to the system. Tarn knew that every member of the DJD was running through the same calculations he was, and trying to figure out just how badly they’d underestimated Deathsaurus and his position here.

Well, every member except one. Nickel scoffed openly. “You knew Deathsaurus had connections. Resources. That’s why you came looking for him, isn’t it? And now you’re worried? Sure, his whole criminal empire is impressive –”

“A criminal empire would be one thing.” Tarn rolled up out of tank mode and stabbed a finger in the direction of the door. “ _That_ is an actual _empire!_ Deathsaurus has used his time far more cleverly than I would have imagined. Another few centuries, and his network of alliances might rival - ” He bit down on the thought, because actually saying _the Decepticon Empire at its height_ still felt like sacrilege, even if his god had fallen.

Besides, Megatron might have used alliances with alien powers in the beginning – when he could still find civilisations willing to deal with either faction – but those alliances had always been a means to an end, to ultimately be discarded when the opportunity for a full conquest presented itself. What Deathsaurus was building was clearly more lasting, and stronger, and –

_Oh, Megatron. And I went up against him with five soldiers and my Voice._

A fine tremour went through Tarn, as he contemplated anew what a risk he’d taken.

“Enough,” he said. “What we need now is a better understanding of our new ally. Leave him to me.”

***

Never let it be said that Tarn didn’t know how to set a scene. When he was orchestrating the end of a traitor’s life, he always paid minute attention to detail – the right music, the most unsettling soundscapes, the most terror-inducing lighting. And while he hadn’t had occasion to host a more – congenial – evening in quite some time, he found he was enjoying organising his quarters in preparation for Deathsaurus’s arrival.

This situation was going to require finesse. For all Tarn’s technical authority here, he could hardly barge in and demand that Deathsaurus simply hand over all his alliances and connections, for the same reason he couldn’t exactly tell Deathsaurus and his crew to step aside and let the DJD drive the WarWorld. Not only was that likely to spark resistance, but even the best case scenario involved Tarn being handed control of a massive, complex machine he didn’t yet understand and was more than likely to crash into something.

But nor could Tarn simply Deathsaurus run his empire and conduct his war with the Galactic Council, while Tarn himself concentrated on Megatron. Whatever respect he might have for Deathsaurus, Tarn had learned his lesson about developing a narrow, laser focus on his own mission, while trusting the bigger picture to another. Never again.

So – Tarn needed to pump Deathsaurus for information, more than formalised briefing packs or snippets of meetings could tell him, and he needed to do it subtly. Convey an interest in Deathsaurus’s dealings, while being very careful not to suggest that the DJD might pose a threat to Deathsaurus’s control of those dealings.

And therefore – ambiance. Deathsaurus was a soldier, and one who likely had had little chance to experience pre-war Cybertronian culture; the playlist Tarn constructed was a selection of ballads and songs with martial undertones from his favourite pre-war operas. Nothing bombastic, but good music with a stirring beat. He dimmed the lights enough to relax his guest, but not so low as to feel romantic. The perfect vintage of highgrade, the exact placement of the chairs – equal heights, but with Tarn unmistakably at the head of the table and Deathsaurus at his right hand. Yes. All Tarn had to do now was take his time, and he was a past master at that.

Deathsaurus seemed a little bemused, at first, by the dinner invitation, and even more so when he stepped into the sitting room of Tarn’s quarters and took in the scene.

“You know, you’re welcome to share our rations – no need to use up your own supplies.”

“Oh, but this is a celebration,” Tarn purred. “I think I can at least offer up a bottle or two to mark our new alliance, don’t you?”

Deathsaurus cocked his head, four ruby optics surveying Tarn narrowly – but he sat, and Tarn grinned behind the mask.

After that, the evening went more easily than he could have imagined. Deathsaurus answered Tarn’s curiosity about the different civilisations on the Rim readily, and even startled a laugh out of Tarn here and there with his anecdotes about the different alien representatives he’d dealt with. It was only after dinner, when Tarn was leaning back, a pleasant buzz of highgrade and satisfaction easing through his fuel lines, that Deathsaurus said, “But that’s enough from me for one evening. I’m just as interested to hear about _your_ history.”

Tarn straightened. Deathsaurus was watching him again with that expression, the half-smile and the unsettlingly sharp four-opticked gaze. He also didn’t seem to be even slightly tipsy.

Ignoring the faint trickle of ice down his spinal struts, Tarn asked carefully, “And what… would you like to know?”

Deathsaurus shrugged, in a way that was somehow not casual at all. “What I know about you and the DJD is what everyone knows.” At Tarn’s sceptical silence, Deathsaurus laughed. “All right, _maybe_ a little more – my curiosity does tend to get sharpened when people are trying to kill me, you know. But you and your division are… well, collections of legends.”

“By design.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I didn’t make an alliance with the legend. I made an alliance with the mech.” In the low light, the gleam of Deathsaurus’s optics was mesmerising – like a beast hypnotising its prey. “So. What came before the legend?”

Tarn swallowed, hard. It was an open-ended question, inviting a story rather than prying for facts – but what story could he possibly tell? Tales about the early days of the DJD, the inventive tortures that earned them that legendary reputation, would hardly go down well with a mech who had been on the List himself mere days ago. So what did that leave? The story of Damus, an officer who found glory under the patronage of the mech he and Deathsaurus had just sworn to murder?

The story of Glitch, who wanted so badly to belong that he –

No. Tarn would stick his own face in Helex’s smelter before that.

But there was one story he was eager to share more of with Deathsaurus. The story he’d told to win Deathsaurus over in the first place; the one he _ached_ to tell. The story of the Cause.

Pleasure at the realisation sent Tarn practically bounding to his feet, as he refilled his guest’s glass, then gestured towards the bedroom with his own.

“Before the legend, there was a young miner, and an idea that burned so brightly it almost consumed him. But why just tell you when I can show you? Deathsaurus… would you like to see my first editions?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My idea was that this would lead directly into the canon scene of Tarn showing off his "first editions" of Towards Peace (each one inscribed in a different dead miner), and Deathsaurus being, um, less than impressed. :) But feel free to imagine a different ending for Tarn inviting Deathsaurus into his bedroom to view his etchings, if you prefer...


End file.
